The Princess Stakes

by Amalie Howard

  Desire and heat twined through him, and Rhystan willed his overeager body to behave. A cockstand at this juncture would not win him any favors. He glanced at her flaming cheeks. Or perhaps it would. He leaned on the railing, jutting his hips forward. Rhystan knew the moment her gaze dipped to the overcrowded area in question, when a strangled sound escaped her throat and her flush deepened to dark rose. “You are unspeakable.”

  “I’m a red-blooded male,” he returned evenly. “You want me, and I want you. Ignoring the monster between us won’t make it go away, Sarani.”

  She rolled her eyes at his innuendo. “Your ego is truly enormous, unlike that part of you. And my name is Sara.”

  “Sara, then,” he conceded, resenting the shorter sound of it on his lips. He much preferred the lyrical sound of her whole name but would yield if it meant that much to her. “The duchess will ferret out any lie in a heartbeat. As my fiancée, you must act the part, because she has to believe it’s a love match.”

  Her slender throat worked. “Why? Most gentlemen hardly marry for love.”

  “Because she is well versed on my vow never to marry. The fact that the ever prosaic, unsentimental duke has been brought low by Cupid will undoubtedly appeal to her female sense of romanticism.” He didn’t add that the Duchess of Embry did not have a romantic bone in her body.

  Sarani narrowed her eyes, lips pursing. “Female sense? I didn’t expect such a deeply elemental thing to be relegated to one particular sex or for you to describe it so.”

  His lips twitched, that tart rejoinder reminding him of their many vigorous discussions. From politics to literature to philosophy to science, they’d never been at a loss for topics of discourse, and she’d always argued her points passionately and with conviction. Those few times that he’d won an argument, she’d conceded with grace, willing to learn and widen her worldview. He’d never met another like her. Smart, articulate, and deviously clever.

  Had she been born a man, she might have left revolution in her wake.

  “Everyone knows women are hopeless romantics,” he said, biting back his smile.

  “A sweeping generalization,” she said, eyes sparking. “I know of many men who would stake their fortunes on the value of a single romantic gesture.”

  “Let me guess, poets like Byron?”

  She sniffed. “And Coleridge, Wordsworth, and other poets of English note while you’re at it. Not all of the great poets hail from the west, you know. Jalal al-Din Rumi’s evocation of divine love could be read as the most intimate kind of love poetry.”

  “I’m familiar with translations of his work. It might surprise you that James Redhouse is a distant acquaintance of mine.” He smiled, seeing her brows pleat at the mention of the well-known literary translator.

  “I thought I saw something from the Royal Asiatic Society in your bookshelf,” she said. “I did not take someone like you to be a connoisseur of Rumi or a collector of peregrine literature.”

  “Why? Because I’m a humble ship’s captain?” He shot her an arch look.

  “No. Because you’ve…”

  Changed.

  He saw the moment the banter fled from her eyes and the wariness returned. Once more, she turned a desperate, panicked gaze to the shoreline. “I don’t—”

  “Sarani, you are not safe there,” he interjected before she chose rashly and he had to resort to less pleasant measures to get his way. “I will protect you in London. You will have the safeguard of my family and my name. Once I conclude my business in London, we can end the engagement however you please. A public scene? A quiet send-off? It’s up to you.”

  “You could have any woman you choose.”

  He nodded. “But with you, I would have an understanding. With you, this is a trade. An eye for an eye—we both get something out of it.” He let out a measured breath. “It’s your choice.”

  She was much too intelligent not to know it was merely the illusion of choice. St. Helena would be dangerous, not only for her but for her servants…whom she considered family. Rhystan could see the war waging in her mind. She’d always been fiercely independent, and that trait had not been tempered. It would gall her to accept his help, especially when her every instinct warned against trusting him. And she had every right to mistrust him.

  “I don’t rate as a wife for the son of a duke, much less an actual duke,” she said eventually. “Your letter stated as much, so why the change of heart?”

  He frowned, recalling the harsh lines of the letter he’d written five years ago. “I thought you didn’t think I was high-ranking enough for you. You were a princess and I was a lowly, third-born son with little to recommend me. I was jealous and angry when I wrote that.”

  “That was obvious.” She shook her head. “Your sentiments were more than clear.”

  He tilted his chin. “I was furious at what I thought you’d done—that you’d married another—though now I can hardly blame you for obeying your father’s wishes, seeing as I’m to be put through the same paces for the sake of duty. Forgive me for being an angry, jilted man.”

  It still pulled, the old injury of losing her, like a scab that hadn’t quite healed. Early on and believing her love false, he had yearned for vengeance, when every single memory of her had brought pain and fury in equal measure. But now he needed her—the one woman who had ever broken him. The whole thing stung of irony. And folly.

  “I propose a peace,” he said and then pushed a conciliatory grin to his lips. “No more barnacles in my bed, and no more mucking out stalls. I’ll prove to you that I can be quite civil.”

  “We don’t suit,” she whispered, something like desolation flickering in her gaze. “You said it yourself. No one will believe that we are to be wed.”

  Pushing off from the rail, he shuttled the distance between them, noting the wild pulse in her throat and the immediate widening of her eyes. His brow lifted. “I counter that we suit rather well.”

  “That’s lust.”

  “Lust is as good a basis for an aristocratic marriage as any,” he said.

  “But you said you wanted love.”

  Rhystan reached out a hand to tuck a loosened strand of hair behind one ear. Her lush mouth parted on a soundless sigh that she couldn’t quite hide. “No, you misunderstand me. I require the pretense of love. Easy enough when one puts one’s mind to the task. A glance here, a touch there. Whispered nothings and sentimental looks. Love is but a show, you see. You have to admit that Byron had the right of it—the man was a swindler of women’s soft hearts.”

  He could see the argument push to her lips, then see her swallow it down with force. Oh, the rub that she still chose to believe in love nearly made him laugh out loud. Despite her strong opinions and unconventional views, his fierce princess remained quixotic at heart. Some things hadn’t changed. He tucked that bit of information away to use later.

  Worrying that temptingly plump lip of hers, she heaved out a breath. After the barest moment of indecision, her shoulders straightened and she met his stare. “If I agree to your terms and I’m followed to England by my pursuer, will you agree to help me identify who wants me dead and why?”

  Rhystan squashed the burst of triumph. “Yes.”

  “And Tej and Asha will both accompany me?”

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  “And I can walk away once your business has concluded in town, ending the engagement?” She paused, lashing him with a guarded glance. “Without recrimination.”

  “Once our mutual goals have been achieved, yes.”

  Sarani closed her eyes, her proud frame hunching slightly. “Then I agree.”

  Twelve

  This betrothal is a means to an end.

  The Duke of Embry is a means to an end.

  Sarani repeated the mantras almost every hour of every day for the next few weeks. The fact that it was wedlock to the
only man she’d ever wanted to marry meant nothing. The fact that she had broken his trust and lost his heart also meant nothing. It would not be too much of a stretch to pretend to love him. She had once, after all.

  This was a mutually agreed upon decision that would benefit them both.

  They were both adults; they could do this.

  It was only when the Belonging had turned toward the English Channel that her nerves started to coil and knot with trepidation. Blast it, could she do this? London wasn’t Joor. She wasn’t a princess in her own palace…in her own space.

  Not that that had earned her any favors with the British nationals there, especially over the last handful of years. Rhystan had been right. Less than a year after he’d been discharged by Markham, discontent had risen to the point of rebellion, and as Markham’s and Talbot’s influence had grown, her father’s had diminished. His court, and his power as maharaja, had become little more than a mockery. As had her station in the palace. One English viscountess had had the gall to order her about like a servant and then complained to Talbot when Sarani hadn’t obeyed her.

  Her father had asked her to be reasonable.

  She’d nodded dutifully and promptly sold off her bridal jewels, donating a significant fortune to the sepoy army.

  It had taken Sarani months to armor herself, walking with her head held high. She’d let their cruelty bounce off like raindrops on a window and plotted in secret with those who wished to see their oppressors gone from her lands. Her father’s hands might have been tied because of the crown’s power, but hers weren’t. And even in the aftermath of the rebellion, she’d made it her purpose to help those who had lost husbands and wives and children. She had lost loved ones, too.

  One of her oldest friends, Manu, who had become queen of the princely state of Jhansi, had been a vocal supporter of the resistance. Her state had been reclaimed by the British under the doctrine of lapse and her adopted son rejected as ruler. Her death, after fighting for the freedom of Jhansi and then being cut down in Gwalior, had hit Sarani hard. Manu had died defending their people and what she believed in.

  Unsurprisingly, most of the northern princes had remained loyal to the British. Earl Canning, the first Viceroy of India, had commended them on being breakwaters in a storm. In the end, despite heavy losses, the rebellion had led to the dissolution of the East India Company, and Queen Victoria’s proclamation about obligations of duty had ushered in a new era. The queen’s sentiments hadn’t stopped power-hungry peers like Talbot from exerting his influence over her father and the vassal state of Joor, however, and life had changed.

  There was every indication that life in London would be worse, and each nautical mile that shortened the distance to England’s shores thickened the lump building in Sarani’s throat. To fit in to the ton, she had to be unquestionably perfect. And so Sarani spent the remaining weeks of the journey brushing up on social customs and etiquette, acting the part of a proper English lady, and learning about the family tree of the Duke of Embry from the stack of books in Rhystan’s cabin, including a copy of Debrett’s Illustrated Peerage.

  “How do you have this?” she’d asked him, sifting through the red and gold-embossed volume and wrinkling her nose. “Or better yet, why?”

  Rhystan’s stare had been measured, impossible to read. “When I became duke, my mother insisted that I refresh myself on my peers, meaning those worthy of a duke’s attention, of course. It was a gift. She still hopes that I could aspire to be the sort of duke my father was.” His tone had left little doubt of what he thought of the gift as well as walking in the shoes of the former duke.

  “Things did not improve with the duke?” she’d asked, recalling the little he’d told her of him. She’d never even known he had siblings.

  “No.” The reply had been terse.

  “And your mother?”

  His face had tightened. “She has always wanted what was best for her children.”

  Even with such a vague answer, Sarani hoped to make a good first impression on the Dowager Duchess of Embry. It did not sound like it would be easy—who gave their son a copy of Debrett’s as light reading?—but maybe she was overthinking it.

  At Asha’s insistence, Sarani was now careful to wear proper gowns and avail herself of an annoying parasol while on deck since her skin was wont to tan in the sun without too much effort. Though she loved when her skin deepened with color, in England, she knew from her mother and French governess that western ladies valued their porcelain complexions. And looking like a sunburned, freckled hoyden would not earn her any favors, not with a haughty duchess thwarted in her plan to marry off her son to a pretty English rose of her choosing.

  Still, it didn’t stop her grumbling to Asha when she had held out the parasol.

  “I’ll look sallow,” she’d complained. “Using this won’t make me any paler. This is silly.”

  Asha had set her jaw. “It’s what English ladies do.”

  “English ladies would envy a corpse!”

  “Better than being an actual corpse if Vikram gets his hands on you.”

  Sarani had buttoned her lips and taken the dratted parasol, resisting the urge to crack it over her knee. At first, Red had laughed himself silly…until she’d produced her kukri blades from the hidden pockets sewn into her skirts and told him to laugh again. Wisely, he had refrained.

  Asha and Tej had both taken the news of her impending engagement in stride, agreeing that it was for the best. She personally might not need a man to survive…but in the world of English aristocracy, society decreed that she did. A woman needed a husband to have value.

  It was a concept that had always rubbed her raw. Even as the daughter of a maharaja and the inherent privilege that came with it, she’d worked on standing on her own merit in Joor. She fought for her people where she could, made up her own mind by considering the facts, not what was spoonfed to her. And it wasn’t in her to withdraw or need to be rescued. But now she had no choice.

  This was England…a different world entirely.

  A different universe, if she was being honest. Admittedly, she was afraid, despite never having been cowed by anything in her life. Not when she’d been promised in marriage to Talbot. Not when the sepoy infantry had come guns blazing to their gates during the rebellion and Markham’s army had made an equally vicious stand. But now…the fear gnawing in her gut threatened to cripple her.

  All because of the threat of strange, foreign shores.

  “Your best friend Manu died defending her people,” Sarani hissed to herself while stirring broth under the watchful eye of the ship’s cook. “The least you could do is hold your head high. You’re a princess, not a helpless damsel.”

  In truth, she felt as though she were about to jump off a plank into shark-infested waters, only these sharks would be dressed to the nines in yards of silken finery while wearing smiles that hid their bloodthirsty, razor-sharp teeth.

  “Well, you’ll just have to make do then. You’ve handled worse,” she told herself.

  “Less talking, more working,” the cook snapped, making her startle.

  “Sorry,” she muttered.

  True to his word, the duke had ordered her to switch jobs with Tej, and now she spent most of her time helping in the galley: baking bread, stirring boiling pots, or sifting dried grain to separate from vermin. It was tedious, but at least she wasn’t shoveling manure or forced to endure the duke’s presence in a cabin that grew smaller by the day. Rhystan might have relented, but he was still short a boatswain thanks to her, and she would not make others shoulder her share.

  Tej was Rhystan’s primary cabin boy now, and though he was free with information on the captain’s whereabouts—allowing Sarani to slip in unnoticed to borrow one of Rhystan’s many volumes of poetry or novels to stave off boredom—a part of her missed their private interaction.

  A stupid, cabbageheaded p
art of her.

  She knew it wasn’t because he was intentionally avoiding her. The entire crew, including their captain, had been busy. They’d faced some rough weather along the stretch of the Atlantic, then outraced a few suspicious-looking ships that a wide-eyed Asha had whispered were smugglers. A few warning cannons had been fired, and Red had told Sarani with a grin not to worry, that the captain had a reputation for being a right mean bastard.

  Hunched near the gangplank leading to the quarterdeck, Sarani had glimpsed said mean bastard standing on the poop deck, shouting orders, hands clasped behind his back, legs apart, shoulders proud and strong, and didn’t doubt Red’s boast for a second.

  Rhystan’s face had been grim, his expression deadly. Power and danger emanated from him in spades, making her shiver. And yet the sight had also made a scalding heat distill through her body like ink through water.

  Cabbageheaded was clearly too weak a description for her.

  Despite his promises, Sarani forced herself to keep his letter etched in her memory. His words had been succinct, with the precision of a dagger set to remove a heart from its prey, and the letter had done its job, even if it’d been written in anger. Years later, those cruel words still bit like blades in her memory.

  It didn’t matter that he’d changed his tune.

  Sarani wasn’t so naive that she didn’t know Rhystan had some other motive and that this sham betrothal would benefit him in another hidden way at her expense. The hard, intractable man he’d become didn’t forgive or forget slights. So what did he want from her? Every instinct in her brain screamed not to trust him. But she’d had no choice then, and she had none now.

  Like Odysseus, she was stuck between a monster and a whirlpool. Or like the boatswains said when they hung in the precarious bosun’s chair to caulk the long seam that ran from bow to stern—that they were hanging between the devil and the deep. Neither scenario presented pleasing odds. With Rhystan in front of her and a killer behind her, the duke was obviously the lesser of two evils.